Working in Her Birthday Suit

Chapter 1: The Unwelcome Arrival (Part 2)

She took a deep breath. Then another. Then she stepped out of the cornfield and onto the road.

The dirt was warm beneath her bare feet. Tiny pebbles dug into her soles. The sun beat down on her unprotected skin. She kept her arms crossed, her hands clamped over her breasts, her thighs pressed together as she walked. Every step felt like an eternity.

The village grew closer. She could see details now---a sign hanging above a door, letters in a script she didn't recognize. A well in the center of the square. A group of women gathered around it, carrying clay jugs and woven baskets.

They saw her before she saw them.

One of the women---broad-shouldered, grey-haired, with a face like weathered stone---looked up and froze. Her jug slipped from her fingers and shattered on the ground.

The others followed her gaze.

For a long, terrible moment, no one moved. Lyra stood at the edge of the village, naked and trembling, her arms wrapped around herself, her face burning with shame. The women stared. A child pointed. Someone whispered something Lyra couldn't hear.

Then the grey-haired woman spoke, her voice carrying across the distance with surprising clarity.

"Well," she said, in a language Lyra somehow understood, "that's certainly a way to make an entrance."

The other women laughed. Not cruel laughter, exactly, but not kind either. The laughter of people who were amused rather than horrified, who found her predicament more entertaining than concerning.

Lyra's face went from red to white. She wanted to run, to disappear, to sink into the earth and never be seen again. But she forced herself to stand her ground, forced herself to speak.

"Please," she said, her voice cracking. "Please, I need help. I need---clothes. Please."

The grey-haired woman studied her for a long moment, her eyes traveling the length of Lyra's body with an appraising gaze that made her skin crawl. Then she shrugged.

"Clothes cost money, girl. What have you got to trade?"

Lyra's stomach dropped. "I---I don't have anything. I just... I woke up here. Like this. I don't know how I got here or where I am or---"

"Not my problem," the woman said flatly. "You want clothes, you earn them. There's work to be done. The miller needs grain hauled. The tanner needs hides scraped. You do a day's work, you get a day's pay. Then you can buy yourself something to cover those pretty tits of yours."

The casual crudeness of the remark made Lyra flinch. She opened her mouth to protest, to beg, to explain that she couldn't possibly work like this, that she needed clothes now, not after a day of labor---

But the woman had already turned away, bending to pick up the pieces of her shattered jug.

"Fair warning," she said over her shoulder. "The miller's a hard man. He won't go easy on you just 'cause you're showing everything you've got. And don't even think about stealing. We've got a zero-tolerance policy for thieves. First offense, you lose a hand. Second offense, you lose your head."

She walked away, leaving Lyra standing naked and speechless at the edge of the village.

The other women followed, casting glances back at her, whispering among themselves. A few laughed. One shook her head in what might have been pity. None of them offered help.

Lyra stood there for a long moment, her arms still wrapped around herself, her body trembling with a mixture of fear, shame, and the first stirrings of something that might have been anger.

This isn't happening, she thought. This can't be happening.

But the sun was hot on her skin, and the dirt was gritty beneath her feet, and the laughter of the village women echoed in her ears.

It was happening.

And she had no idea what to do about it.

The miller's name was Hilda.

She was a mountain of a woman, broad-shouldered and thick-armed, with flour dusted across her forearms and a scowl that could curdle milk. She looked Lyra up and down when the naked girl appeared at her door, her expression shifting from surprise to annoyance to grudging acceptance.

"You're the one the girls were talking about," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Lyra said, her voice small. "I need work. I need to earn money for clothes."

Hilda grunted. "Can you lift?"

"I don't---I don't know. I'm willing to try."

Another grunt. Then Hilda stepped aside, jerking her head toward the interior of the mill. "Fine. There's grain sacks in the back. Need to be moved to the storage loft. Fifty of them. Each one weighs about sixty pounds. You move them all, I'll pay you two copper pieces."

Two copper pieces. Lyra had no idea what that was worth, but it didn't sound like a lot.

"Is that enough for clothes?"

Hilda laughed---a short, sharp sound. "For a pair of socks or old boots, maybe. If you find a generous seller. Which you won't."

Lyra's heart sank. But she nodded, because what else could she do?

The work was brutal.

The grain sacks were rough and heavy, and her bare skin was ill-suited for carrying them. The first one scraped her shoulder raw before she'd even made it halfway to the loft. By the tenth sack, her arms were shaking, her back was aching, and she was covered in a sheen of sweat that made the flour dust stick to her skin like paste.

By the twentieth sack, she'd stopped caring about her nudity.

It was strange how quickly shame could be pushed aside by exhaustion. At first, every step had felt like a spotlight on her bare body, every brush of the grain sack against her breasts a fresh humiliation. But as the work wore on, as her muscles burned and her lungs gasped for air, the awareness of her own nakedness faded into the background. She was too tired to be embarrassed. Too focused on the next sack, the next step, the next breath.

By the time she finished the fiftieth sack, the sun was setting, and she could barely stand.

Hilda appeared at the bottom of the loft ladder, two copper coins glinting in her palm. Lyra climbed down on shaking legs, her body screaming with every movement. She held out her hand, and Hilda dropped the coins into it.

"Here," the miller said. "You earned it."

Lyra stared at the coins. They were small and dull, stamped with a symbol she didn't recognize. They felt impossibly heavy in her palm.

"Where can I buy clothes?" she asked.

Hilda shrugged. "The market's closed for the day. You'll have to wait until morning."

"But---"

"Morning," Hilda repeated, her voice brooking no argument. "There's a stable at the edge of town. You can sleep there, if you don't mind the smell. Hay's free."

She turned and walked away, leaving Lyra standing in the fading light, two copper coins in her hand, still completely naked.